[center][h2][color=fff79a]L O N E S O M E 
R O A D[/color][/h2]
Interacting With: [@The Fated Fallen][@Eisenhorn][@GodOfWar][@rivaan][/center]

[hr][hr]A faint metallic rapping indicated the final check of his armaments, the thin swab being returned to a satchel at his side. The weapon, an archaic flintlock, returned to his belt, alongside a campaign-worn dirk. Nearly matching their looks in a faded duster and pants was the man known as Jean, to those who had the pleasure of learning his name. One stark contrast to his attire was a deep crimson neckerchief bound at his neck, it’s cleanliness seemingly out of place among the tattered garb.

Hesitantly, he boarded the carriage after the female, taking a ‘seat’ at the middlemost portion on the right and settling in.

 The male briefly looked to the speaking Templar knight lady(or whatever, all knights look the same), a small grin playing at the sequestered portion of his visage. First impressions were everything, and he was already imagining each aged stone and protuberance upon the weathered road felt through the wooden confines of the wagon. The miserly beast supposed to tug such cart looked to be dying and he wondered how long it would take to reach their destination. 

[color=fff79a]“What have I gotten myself into...”[/color]

The Ex-Brigand muttered to the wind, his voice partially drowned by the creaky whisper of wheels. Hazel hues attempted to peer about the front where the driver sat, but even with such lanky frame, the driver obscured anything of particular detail. While he could inquire of their whereabouts, he simply didn’t wish to converse at the moment, least, not with the likes of him.

He had no particular qualms with the courteous individual known as Roake, yet something about him was..offsetting to say the least. Of course, Jean was certainly not in the position to be a judge of character. The thought even spawned a chuckle; brief and barely audible. The man parted his duster and retrieved the yellowed parchment, examining it for any details previously missed. Whoever scribed such thing seemed to to be rushed, as atramentous words nearly blended together in illegibility. Nothing new, yet he’d check thrice again or more, out of pure boredom

The rogue returned the King’s Call to his duster, replacing it with a tarnished flask. Uncapping, a faint redolence of liquor wafted about the carriage. Jean took a swig of the amber-hued vice, before offering it to his would be companions. Way he saw it, they were gonna need it.

[color=fff79a]“Bandit’s Vice. Helps to be inebriated during times of boredom”[/color]

He tipped the flask in each of their directions, like a conversation starter but less boring.

[color=fff79a]“Any takers?”[/color]